Pas de Quoi
by Lutralutra
Summary: Bon Cop, Bad Cop. An epilogue to the movie, sort of - David has something he needs to do before he goes home at last. Bilingual fic, David/Martin friendship.


I saw the Canadian movie _Bon Cop, Bad Cop _for the third or second time, not sure which, yesterday, and suddenly felt inspired to write a little fic in honour of the two main characters, David Bouchard of Montreal and Martin Ward of Toronto.

I don't know why I like this movie so much; normally, violent cop dramas with a lot of swearing aren't really my thing. But Colm Feore and Patrick Huard have a great dynamic as characters and actors here, and I just find the concept of the film - a Francophone cop and an Anglophone cop being forced to overcome cultural differences to solve a gruesome case - really cool and really _Canadian. _As a passionate student of both English and French, I love the blend.

I'm proud - and tickled - to announce that this is definitely my first-ever bilingual story! Although, that may considerably limit my audience...

Warning: just a little tiny bit of swearing. (Surprisingly, not from David.)

Disclaimer: I don't own either the _Bon Cop _or the _Bad Cop, _or any fun combination of the two.

**Pas de Quoi**

Detective David Bouchard of the _Sûreté du Québec _sat on the edge of a hospital bed, one arm in a sling and the other resting on one leg, gripping his knee as he contemplated the person who had saved him in so many ways today.

That Detective Martin Ward of the Ontario Provincial Police - he was patronizing, supercilious, by-the-book, and what was worse, Anglophone. David had been all set to detest the guy, and he'd done a pretty good job of that at first. But then Martin had thrown all those labels out the window – including, to some degree, the Anglophone part. And if he hadn't done just that, David had a horrible feeling that right now he'd be arranging his daughter's funeral. Obviously that knowledge disturbed him, as did the fact that an insufferable Toronto detective had been crucial in rescuing her, and therefore in preserving David's soul and sanity.

David Bouchard wasn't used to owing a man so much, especially a finicky _Anglais_. And he wasn't so sure he liked it.

He looked up, attention immediately diverted as his ex-wife Suzie and his daughter – his smiling, whole, _Dieu merci, _safe daughter – Gabrielle entered his room. The latter made a mad dash for her father, completely disregarding his injuries as she leaped up onto the bed and into his arms. "Papa!"

He smiled through his pained grimace, because right now nothing could make him happier than hearing that word from her lips. "Je t'aime, Gabrielle," he murmured, kissing her blond hair and pressing her to him with his good arm. "Je t'aime."

"Gabrielle, lâche ton papa – tu lui fais mal," Suzie spoke up, approaching to run her fingers through Gabrielle's hair and gently pry her off her father. "David, ça va?" she inquired, eyeing the ostentatious bruises on his face and the sling with concern.

"Oui, oui, Suzie," he hastened to assure her with a cavalierly wink. "Ton papa, il est très dur, tu sais, Gabrielle."

"Il a certainement la _tête _très dur," Suzie retorted wryly as Gabrielle giggled, but he met her eyes and grinned. The resurfacing of her sarcastic wit was a sure sign that things were okay between them, that she forgave him. And then, proof of that, her face softened, and she reached out and cupped his sore chin in her hand, adding with quiet sincerity, "Heureusement."

David made a careful appraisal of his daughter and ex-wife, checking that they were both absolutely all right, not cringing with any leftover shock or terror. But they both seemed to have made a rapid recovery, standing there with their arms around each other, waiting for him to come home with them. He felt a sudden overwhelming rush of love for these two women who meant more to him than anything in the world, and he stood up and hopped off the bed with a groan, stepping forward to embrace them both. "Vous êtes dures aussi, mes filles," he said, blinking over their heads, a bit choked. "Je vous aime, les deux."

"Nous t'aimons aussi, papa!" Gabrielled piped up, and if he let a tear escape then, well, he wiped it away before anybody saw.

The long-awaited words _Rentrons à la maison _on the tip of his tongue, he suddenly remembered something he had to do.

"Avez-vous vu Martin?" he asked abruptly, drawing back.

"Il est dans la salle d'attente avec sa famille," Suzie replied, looking momentarily surprised but then smiling as she read his mind. "Vas-y, David, on va t'attendre dans l'auto."

He left them with a kiss and a wave, striding out into the hospital waiting room at great speed despite the stabs of pain to his arm that the jerking of his quick footsteps brought. But he slowed as he saw the now-familiar grey-haired detective seated in a plastic chair, his teenage son beside him and his younger sister Iris bending over him, speaking in excited, rapid-fire English of which David could catch only a few words – and he was pretty sure some of them were highly rude. Martin's voice was a low, calming undertone.

"Martin –" David began, but was interruped by the feisty Iris, who whirled at the sound of his voice and was immediately in his face, full red lips parted in an angry – but attractive, David couldn't help noting - snarl.

"You! You asshole, Bouchard! What, so first you rope him into some reckless scheme, jeopardizing his job, and then you get him _shot! _Several times! God, you-"

"Iris! STOP!" Martin barked, attracting quite a few dirty looks from surrounding patients. He lowered his voice. "Calm down. His daughterwas taken. _I _made the call to do what I did, and I don't regret it. I'm fine, Iris." He raised his eyebrows at his sister, who was still panting, ready to send the Québécois detective sprawling. "And don't make me stand up, because that would really hurt at the moment."

She glanced from his composed features to the taken-aback David and then back again, then exhaled loudly, brushing a messy strand of hair behind her ear and scowling. "Right, well, if you're so_ fine_ then I'm going to get myself a coffee. And don't you dare move until I get back!"

She stalked off, David watching her hips sway as she went, and with a nudge Martin prompted his son, "Jonathan, why don't you go with your aunt? Try to calm her down, if you can. I'd appreciate it."

Jonathan stood with some reluctance, rubbing his curly brown head, frown lines puckering his brow. "...You're okay, Dad?" he asked after a careful pause. David thought he could see a little of the boy's father in him, always cautious, always wanting to double-check. He suddenly felt like ruffling the kid's hair, but that would just have been weird.

Martin smiled lightly at his son. "I am, really, Jonathan." Jonathan bit his lip, then nodded and turned to go, loping off after Iris with that gangly adolescent gait. Both men stared after him for a moment before David plopped down in the vacant chair next to his partner with a fatigued huff.

"Bizarre, hein?" the Québécois detective remarked.

"What?" Martin asked.

"Ben, le fait qu'on a les deux dans la famille des femmes pas mal robustes et des enfants adorables." David sniffed, then paused and added, "Hé, dit pas à ton fils que je l'ai appelé 'adorable'. Les gars ados, ils n'aiment pas ça."

"Speaking from experience, David?" Martin laughed when the other man growled. "Ne t'inquiète pas. I won't tell him."

David sucked in air through his front teeth and then let it out noisily, wishing he was allowed a cigarette in here. He turned his head to look at Martin, and found the other detective watching him too, their faces closer than he'd thought.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a de bizarre à propos du fait qu'on a les deux de bonnes familles?" Martin inquired curiously.

_Le fait qu'on a quelque chose en commun, _David thought. _Un inspecteur de Montréal et un inspecteur de Toronto peuvent travailler ensemble et sauver la journée – c'est bizarre, ça. _But all he said was, "Eh, rien."

The tall Ontarian shifted in his seat, flinching. David's eyes found their way to his companion's chest, the shirt unbuttoned far down enough to allow for a telltale glimpse of white bandages wrapped around the torso beneath. Suddenly he was transported back to those tense minutes in the warehouse down at the port, hearing the gunshots ring out one after the other as they thudded into Martin Ward's chest. Without that bulletproof vest, his partner would've been dead.

"Martin...ça va?" he asked uncomfortably.

"I'll survive," the Ontario detective replied, clearly startled. His lip twisted up dryly. "I won't be playing hockey for a while, but I'll survive. And you?"

"J'ai ma fille, je n'ai aucune plainte," was David's ready, honest reply. But then he snapped suddenly, "Mais pour l'amour du ciel, Martin, ne me parle pas du hockey! Je ne veux plus jamais entendre le maudit mot de ma vie."

There was a brief silence before Martin deadpanned, "Tu auras peut-être besoin de déménager en Afrique pour achever cela, mon ami."

Simultaneously they both burst out laughing, sniggering like schoolboys. The unexpected release hurt both of them, literally, stretching the stitches decorating Martin's abdomen and jarring David's internally and externally bruised ribs, but it felt good all the same. Bringing down a demented murderer, getting Gabrielle back safe and sound – that was more than worth a few scratches. And so, perhaps, was the companionable feeling that now sat between these two culturally and philosophically different men who had cooperated and succeeded against the odds.

"Ah, c'est ça le Canada, there's no place like home – c'est bien l'expression, oui?" David commented, relaxing tilting his head back.

"Oui, c'est la bonne expression," Martin assured him with a final chuckle. Certainly there were few other countries in the world where you might find Francophone and Anglophone police detectives working together on the same case. And that was quite a distinction.

Well, he'd stalled long enough – he refused to think of it as anything more than stalling, definitely nothing like _bonding _– and he figured it was about time he got this over with. David straightened, shrugging his good shoulder, and said with an effort, "Martin, je voulais...uh...I wanted to, to tell you that I, uh..."

He cleared his throat. "I wanted to say – là-bas, avec la bombe, et Gabrielle, puis ensuite moi et le psycho – I, you, uh, you saved Gabrielle's life, et le mien aussi. Et tu aurais pu perdre ton job. And I apprécie – appreciate it. So I wanted to...say thank you."

He could feel Martin weighing the words, and then the Ontarian replied gravely, "Il n'y a pas de quoi, David."

David nodded, Martin nodded in return, and they shared a brief grin and a few moments of silence, not nearly as awkward as either had expected. Then, painstakingly and stiffly, David rose and held out his hand.

Martin stood too, and couldn't hold back a groan as the muscles in his abdomen pulled roughly. David frowned in mild consternation. "Désolé, Martin, je n'aurais pas dû me lever."

The other waved it off. "I would have had to get up at some point."

They clasped hands tightly – although not that tightly, both of them sufficiently battered not to want to add broken fingers to the mix – and shook gingerly.

"It was good working with you, Detective Ward," David said with a genuine grin.

"Le plaisir était entièrement mutuel, Inspecteur Bouchard," Martin replied.

David clapped him carefully on the back once as they parted, but he was nearly at the hospital exit when he turned suddenly. "Martin...je crois, uh, je crois que Suzie serait contente de t'avoir pour souper encore. Vu que t'es tellement un expert de cuisine, et tout le tra-la-la. Et je pense que t'es maintenant l'héros éternel de Gabrielle, alors elle en serait ravie."

"Well," Martin said slowly, amused, "I'll consider it. As long as it doesn't inconvenience _you _too much_, _of course."

"I'll survive," David flung back casually, lifting a hand in a careless wave as he turned at long last toward home.

**the end / la fin **

Some of the grammatical errors I made in French were on purpose in order to try to imitate David's colloquial Qu ébécois way of speaking, which I'm sure I completely failed to emulate, but oh well. However, if anyone out there spots mistakes in either French or English, let me know about them and je vous serai très reconnaissant. I'm always trying to improve in both tongues!

Also, I certainly don't intend to offend either French- or English-Canadians with anything in this fic. I'm just trying to stay faithful to the characters, which I quite possibly didn't accomplish, but if I've insulted anyone, I sincerely apologize. Désolé.

On an ending note, thanks for reading - and if you've made it this far and understood every word, you're awesome. Being bilingual is the best!

Merci beaucoup.


End file.
